


Dreams

by ffoulkes_no



Category: The Dresden Files (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-28 17:46:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15054491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ffoulkes_no/pseuds/ffoulkes_no
Summary: Hrothbert gets it entirely wrong.





	Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ's dresdenfic community in 2009.

A thousand years ago, Hrothbert of Bainbridge was killed, slain by a Warden of the High Council. For a thousand years, he'd dreamed of nothing but revenge; revenge against the Wardens, revenge against the High Council, revenge against the Merlin.  
  
As the years passed, the singular thought dominated him. When his mind was his own, which wasn't often, he imagined his knife in the belly of a Warden, his hands around the throat of a wool-robed Councilman. He could imagine the jerking, spasming body of the Merlin under his hands as he pulled the man's soul from its body. Inch by inch, bit by bit, he would make it last.  
  
After a hundred years, he'd forgotten the feel of cool, wet Earth. After two, the feel of cloth. After five, skin. But as he neared the millennial mark, he could still recall the hard, wet force of his axe blade cutting into the assassin, the still-warm blood of his wife on his hands as he held her to him. At each manifestation, as he poured out of his own skull to take on semblance of human form, the horrible feeling of something thick and oozing coating his hands remained.  
  
Each summoning rolled on into the next. Each master blurred and condensed into one single focal point of hatred. In life, the proud Hrothbert of Bainbridge would have never tolerated any man assuming to be his better. Now, there were only betters; men with more power, men with more substance. He fought it, in the beginning, his pride forcing him to stand tall even when the master of the skull brought horrible pain down on him for his disobedience. Eventually, he learned -- learned to bow and agree, compliment and obey, to give every appearance of the loyal servant, while in his mind he raged and looked toward the day he would be free. Now, in his dreams, his hands not only found their way around Warden's necks, but his masters'. Each, in their turn, took their place under his fingers or at the end of his knife. Dozens, more. Wizards had long lifespans, though his masters tended to find their ends quickly and, to Bainbridge's pleasure, messily. He had no part in it-- their own sway towards the Black was often their downfall --but he rejoiced in their deaths as if he had done the deed himself. It was some of the only pleasure he could count during his imprisonment.  
  
During the tenure of a particularly vicious and ambitious master, Bainbridge was introduced to Harry Dresden. The young wizardling was like many others he had been commanded to share his knowledge with over the centuries: small, unfocused, and without purpose. Morningway had a purpose for him, Bainbridge knew, but the boy had no knowledge of that. The older wizard had assigned Bainbridge as the boy's tutor, to introduce him to magic, to guide the budding Gift to suit Morningway's own plans. He was to teach Harry the darker aspects of magic, the forbidden and the arcane. The boy's uncle hadn't been precise in his wording, however. Though Bainbridge was no djinn, he could make mischief for those who were fool enough to leave doorways the size of rushing rivers.  
  
It began as simple detours: once the basics had been dealt with, the lessons focused more heavily on show than substance. Harry, the son of a stage magician, took to such things with surprising enthusiasm and Morningway, easily impressed with the theatrical front the boy was able to present, was more than willing to accept any show of improvement as an advancement toward his own goal. Little by little, Bainbridge skewed the intent of his master. The boy would not follow the path Morningway had laid out for him. Instead, Harry was shown how to counter the sinister magics of his uncle. Bainbridge had served Morningway for nearly all of the mortal wizard's life. He knew Morningway's spells -- he had even written a few of them, himself. And, as time passed, and Harry's proficiency in magic improved, Bainbridge could see the hands around Morningway's throat changing; it was no longer the ghost's long, pale fingers that pressed the life from his master's neck each night.  
  
Perhaps Bainbridge would never feel Morningway's slowing pulse along his own palms, but the boy would, someday, he knew, bring him some of the greatest joy of his existence.  
  
Despite Harry's innate talent and enthusiasm for some aspects of magic, teaching him workable spells and convincing the boy to practice anything to perfection would have tried the patience of a saint. In life, Bainbridge had a hair trigger. A thousand years of servitude had taught him to control the reaction, but had done little to quell the impulse. There were days he wished to be corporeal if only to vent his anger on a nearby chair or beaker. Blessedly, Harry seemed to sense the ghost's agitation and would make what corrections he could. Harry, unlike any young charge Bainbridge could recall, not only acknowledged his emotions, but genuinely seemed to care about how he felt. Bainbridge chalked it up to his lack of experience with the magical world. In a few years, he reasoned, the boy would more fully understand the nature of ghosts and would care as little for a spirit's feelings as one does for the feelings of a book or bench. But as the years passed, Harry's consideration for Bainbridge didn't abate and, completely to the ghost's surprise, he began to feel himself concerned for Harry's wellbeing, as well.  
  
Harry was well into his teens before Bainbridge came upon knowledge that Morningway had been keen to hide from both boy and ghost for years. Malcolm Dresden's death was no accident. Every lesson that had been called off early because the boy had lost what little control children have over their emotions, every night of frightened fingers feeling their way through the eyeholes of his worn skull to find grip enough to carry it upstairs -- these could be laid squarely upon the actions of Justin Morningway.  
  
And it was here that Bainbridge also came upon a realization; in his vivid, revenge-seeking dreams, the hands that went for Morningway's throat were no longer Harry's. They were again his own. They had been for years.


End file.
